


Heat Sink

by fleete



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for rotrude's (Home Made) BAMF Merlin Mini Party, for the prompt: "I really want to see protective boys threatening and carrying through with their threat when the other is hurt or put in danger!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Sink

**Author's Note:**

> **content notes** : Some magical violence.

It’s hard to stay upright. Merlin’s trousers wick wetness up his thighs and his groin, driving shivers through his legs, and causing his knees to slip, jerkily, against the slimy mud and moss.

The circles hurt. They pull at his skin. With each concentric ring completed, Merlin can feel the force sucking on his magic grow, as if a farmer were using all his weight to pull on a stubborn root, just before it pops out of the ground.

Hmm. That’s a good metaphor. He can just picture old Simon in Ealdor—no. Merlin’s chin snaps up. 

For an instant, everything comes back into focus. He must think of a way to save Arthur without exposing his magic. He must save the knights, all tied up against the trees at the edge of the clearing. The painted sorceresses—goddamn them, what do they want?—sneak wide-eyed glances at him as they hurriedly arrange their herbs and sticks in circles around him. Stay alert. Stay clear. Think, Merlin.

“—he’s of no use to you, he’s just a—” Arthur’s voice is at its most convincing, and even as the haze of the priestess’ magic starts to close in again, Merlin latches onto it. He can’t make out the individual words, but the tone is familiar. _He’s a fool. He’s a servant. Merlin is a wonder, but the wonder is he’s such an idiot._ Old resentment bubbles in the back of Merlin’s mind, and that’s good too, helps him concentrate.

The sorceresses continue to work, ignoring Arthur, Leon, Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival. They don’t respond to Arthur’s offers or his threats, and when Leon manages to slip a wrist out of his bindings, they pause only long enough to put it back. All of Arthur’s best, diplomatic wheeling is for nothing, because unlike the other people he’s convinced, these women know _exactly_ what Merlin is, and by the looks of the magics they’re casting, they’re not taking any chances with him. Their leader—a tall, grim woman with waist-length grey braids—stands motionless while the others work. Her eyes are locked on Merlin.

A young sorceress, hardly more than a girl, lays down the last branch in the outermost circle, and it feels it like a punch to the gut. Merlin gasps, doubles over.

“What are you doing to him?!” 

It sounds like Gwaine’s voice, but Merlin can’t concentrate. His magic is tearing, ever so slowly and painfully, out of his reach. It feels like his skin is coming off. He sucks in shallow breaths, and feels the mud slide against his forehead. 

“Take me, for God’s sake! He’s just a servant!” 

That’s definitely Arthur. He sounds desperate and hopelessly confused, and Merlin nearly lets out an anxious sob. This is not how he finds out, this can’t be—

“Emrys. We demand that you restore unto the Order of the Morrigan the magic which was drained from them during the Great Purge, as it was prophesied that you would. Do this now, or we will kill you.”

Merlin doesn’t have to lift his head to know it’s the woman with braids who spoke. He struggles to sit up and to clear his throat.

Before he can answer, Elyan calls out, “He can’t do what you want!” and Arthur adds, in a carefully calm voice, “Honestly, you’ve got the wrong man. He’s just a serving boy. Let him go, and we’ll help you find who you’re looking for.”

Merlin’s head lolls backwards for a moment when he finally gets upright. “I can’t—.” His voice comes out raspy, and he swallows. “I can’t—.”

“You can and you will,” the woman says without blinking. Her younger counterparts have gathered behind her, and they look distinctly nervous under the ritual paint on their faces. They’re all girls, Merlin realizes. Except for the leader, they’re teenagers and children.

“Listen to me—” Arthur tries again.

“I won’t do it,” Merlin gets out. He doesn’t know what’s happening right now, has never heard of this Order before in all his studies. What he does know is this woman forfeited all favor with him the moment she tied Arthur up.

The woman’s nostrils flare, before she stalks over to Arthur, a knife flashing in her hand. No.

“Don’t.” The word comes out rough, low out of his throat. His magic is a ragged wound in his chest, and the circles around him burn like brands, but no. An furious, resounding _no_ rumbles under his knees, skitters outward from him but dies at the first magical ring.

The sorceress turns. She looks at him consideringly, checks the circles with her eyes. The girl-witches clutch each other’s arms, staying away.

“You are trapped, Emrys. Agree to restore the Order’s life-magic, or I will kill your king.”

_You touch him, and I will wipe you from the earth._

He know she hears him by the way she goes momentarily stock still.

She shakes her head. “You. Are. Trapped,” she spits, waving her knife. “Make a decision.”

Merlin’s already made a decision, he just doesn’t know if he can follow through. His own magic is a bloody, slippery ruin when he reaches for it. Elyan and Percival are fighting at their bindings, and Leon tries to slip closer to Arthur in a vain attempt to shield him.

“You are a madwoman,” Arthur says quietly. “Merlin is not who you think he is, but if you think killing me will make it better, then kill me.”

Her face twists angrily, and Merlin feels the bottom drop out of his stomach when her knife slices the air. No.

Merlin drops his hold on his magic, and reaches a league straight down, down down down into the possessive soil of Albion to say _No. No. No._

Albion agrees.

*

When Merlin wakes up, Arthur pretends to be extremely disgruntled.

“—mistaken for a _sorcerer_ , of all the stupid things, and then you had to go and _argue_ with the mad witch—”

Arthur’s fingers shake, though, when they comb the mud from Merlin’s hair, and so Merlin attempts a smile to reassure him.

“M’alright.”

“You’re all right because you got saved by some little girls, not because of anything you did.” Arthur grimaces at something behind Merlin’s head, so Merlin cranes his neck to see. The six girls are huddled around a fire, the ritual paint scrubbed from their faces. The littlest one, looking about six years old, is cradled in Percival’s lap. Every one of them is staring at Merlin in quiet fear.

“What happened?” Merlin asks.

“They killed her,” Gwaine says, appearing at Merlin’s shoulder. “The old sorceress. She was about to stab the King, and then she just…fell. The ground opened up and swallowed her whole.”

“Swallowed her whole,” Merlin repeats. Right. 

“Apparently this witch just went around and grabbed girls, wanted to make them part of her Order,” Arthur says. “They must’ve realized that the witch had the wrong man, and they didn’t want her killing anyone, so they stopped her.”

“Did they really.”

“Mmm,” Arthur says. “And then helped us care for your lazy hide.”

Merlin had noticed that part. He has a taste on his tongue like a medicinal tonic, and his magic feels tender but intact. That, he could not have done by himself. He meets the eyes of the six girls, one by one. _Thank you._

The little one dips her head in his direction. 

“We’ll need to help them find their families.”

“Obviously. I’d have never thought of that myself,” Arthur scoffs, and then presses his lips in a line, like he knows he’s overdoing it, but can’t help himself. His hand grips Merlin’s wrist tight where it’s hidden under a blanket.

“I’m glad you’re well enough to insult me, sire.”

Intensely glad. Merlin closes his eyes and lets Arthur’s blustery retort wash over him, sinks down into the soil that’s cradling them both. The ground holding Arthur up murmurs reassurances, and Merlin sighs a thank you.

He falls asleep with Arthur’s palm against his forehead and Albion’s protection against his back.


End file.
